Death in the Back Seat
Page 21
He gave me a look, then hurried down the yard, jumped in his car and drove off.”
“Of course you didn’t know the man?”
“I can’t remember his name offhand, but I could find it for you. His picture has been in the papers. He’s mixed up in the case. He’s that short, stout fellow, that New York lawyer.”
Jack’s eyes and mine met in a long, steady look. Our midnight visitor had been Franklyn Elliott.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Dark Red Splotches
We escaped from Olmstead. We drove straight to the Tally-ho Inn and demanded Franklyn Elliott. He wasn’t there; he wasn’t even in the village. Bill Tevis, the clerk, told us about it.
“Elliott made up his mind at least three hours ago. Tossed some things in his bag, called for his car and lit out for New York. Business, he said. I guess it was, too. His secretary phoned.”
From the Inn we drove to Standish’s home. His housekeeper was serving him dinner. She answered the door and wasn’t disposed to allow us to disturb his meal, but Standish heard our voices and shouted out that we were to be admitted. The housekeeper pulled a long face, sniffed and retired to the kitchen.
Standish was so excited by our news that he pushed back the dishes and failed to eat another bite. The three of us gathered at the table, and mapped out our campaign.
“Elliott,” said Standish, “could explain why he robbed a poor box if he had ten minutes to think. We’ve got to accuse him before he learns he’s suspected. And we’ve got to be sure he’s available.” With which he went to the telephone. To my surprise the long-distance operator easily located Franklyn Elliott in New York. He was calmly dining in his Fifth Avenue Club, and willingly left the table to talk. The policeman explained that he was coming to town and wished to see a copy of Mrs. Coatesnash’s will. Elliott was unsuspicious. An appointment was agreed upon for two o’clock the following afternoon. No mention naturally was made of Jack or me.
“I’ll be by for you,” said Standish jubilantly to us; “at six in the morning. We’ll take the milk train in. Elliott will talk tomorrow or I’ll know the reason why. At last we’ve got something definite on that lawyer!”
Franklyn Elliott, as we knew quite well, faced a far more serious charge than burglary. After we departed, Standish called in Lester Harkway. It was decided that the younger officer should go immediately to the Catskills, seek out Elliott’s hunting lodge and check exhaustively on the lawyer’s alibi for the night of March 20th.
“It’s a long time ago,” said Standish, “but let’s hope you can dig something up. Elliott says he went out with his guide on the twentieth. Find the guide. Talk to the natives. Make a survey of the gas stations in the vicinity and try to find out whether Elliott bought any gasoline on the twentieth. He had his car with him. He swears he spent that day and night in the Catskills, but maybe you can establish he didn’t.”.
“If it can be established,” drawled Harkway, “I’ll establish it.” He pretended to be indifferent, but he was excited. “It looks like a hot trail to me.”
The two men shook hands and separated. That very night Harkway started for the Catskills.
Our alarm clock went off at five a.m. the following morning. The sky outside our bedroom windows was a misty slate gray, sprinkled with a few pale stars. I woke with one of my heavy colds. I had sinus, and the sinus made my head ache as though someone had hammered it. My eyes ran and my nose dripped. Jack got me a slug of brandy. I swallowed it. I felt worse. He insisted I abandon the trip. I indignantly refused, started to put on my clothes and collapsed in tears. I was beaten and I knew it.
I crawled back into bed. Jack earnestly deplored my misery and did what he could to alleviate it, though I must say he kept his eye on the clock. He made me coffee which I drank and toast which I pushed aside. At six precisely a horn tooted outside and Jack gave me a hurried kiss.
. “Stay in bed, sweetheart. I’ll be back at five this afternoon. Don’t be so blue. The minute there’s news I’ll phone.”
“Will you phone when you leave Elliott’s office?”
“You bet I will.”
He rushed outside. A car door slammed, gears made a shrieking sound and an automobile shot past my window to the road. I went back to sleep and when I opened my eyes it was noon. I felt a little better but not much. I tottered to the bathroom, where I sprayed my nose and throat. That improved my head. It was possible for my eyes to focus.
Walking gingerly like a person who walks between eggs, I went to the kitchen. I squeezed six oranges and drank the juice. I reached for a cigarette. Jack had taken the last package; the carton was empty. There is no calamity in our house which equals a total lack of cigarettes. I searched feverishly through my pocketbook and desk, through Jack’s bathrobe and suits, only to discover that there wasn’t a cigarette on the place. I fished a butt from an ashtray and smoked that. It was awful.
I held out for an hour before I decided to drive to the village. When I entered the bedroom to dress, I thought I observed a man standing on the opposite side of the road. I pulled down the shades. Fifteen minutes later I locked the back door and started toward the garage.
There was a man on the opposite side of the road. It was Silas.
His attitude caught my attention. He stood in the Coatesnash pasture; he leaned on the pasture gate; he stared at the cottage. He was like a statue. While I watched he moved, opened the gate and advanced to the center of the road. Again he became immobile. Then to my surprise he turned around and retraced his steps. Once more he sank his elbows on the cross-bar and started toward the garage.
It was a peculiar performance. Because I was a little frightened my voice sounded sharp. I shouted, “Silas! What are you doing? Were you coming here?”
He jumped. Immediately he saw me, he ducked through the gate and began clambering up the hill toward the Lodge. In the face of an alarm so evident, my own fright vanished. I shouted again. Slowly Silas came back, crossed the road, stood before me.
“What do you want, ma’am?”
“The point is: what did you want? Weren’t you coming here? Why did you change your mind?”
He swallowed. “I was…” He broke off, peered up at me. “Is your husband at home?”
“He’s in New York. He won’t be here until evening. What is it? Won’t I do?”
Silas shook his head. His hair hadn’t been combed for days. He looked like a very sick man. I saw desperation in his face and stark misery. He scuffed the dirt in the road, kicking it back and forth, not seeing it.
The situation had the unreality of a dream. It was one of those moments when an ordinary human being becomes possessed of an intense mental lucidity and insight, a sort of sixth sense that amounts almost to clairvoyance. I understood precisely what ailed Silas. The time Standish had predicted had at last arrived; Silas had reached his breaking point. And I didn’t know what to do about it.
I said, “Come in the house. You can talk to me.”
He grew suspicious. “Who said anything about talking? I want to see your husband—not you.”
“But Jack won’t be here until evening.”
“A few hours means nothing to me. I’ve had weeks of hell. Did you hear me? I said weeks.”
His voice was hysterical and he wasn’t quite sane. Whatever part he had played in our crimes I felt then that he had paid for it. I told him—and I was honest—that I was sorry. He didn’t seem to hear. I couldn’t reach him in any way. He had braced himself to speak to another man, and even in wretchedness he retained his contempt for the female sex. Sullenly, monotonously, he refused to talk to me. He said only one other significant thing.
“Is it true, Mrs. Storm, that someone broke in the cottage?”
“Yes, it’s true.”
His already pale face lost color. He was trembling. “You can put your mind at rest from now on. This thing is going to stop. And I’m going to stop it. I’ll see your husband tonight. No police—do you understand? No police. I’ll talk to
him alone. I’ve done a lot of thinking and—and—he’s my pick of the lot.” With that Silas went away. Sick with disappointment, I crawled weakly into the car and drove downtown. At the Tally-ho Inn I stopped for cigarettes. While I waited at the cigar counter for change, Bill Tevis spied me and sang out cheerily from the desk.
“Your old friend is back in the hotel.”
I frowned, walked to the desk. “What friend do you mean?”
“Elliott, of course. He blew in about noon. He’s upstairs now.” Bill grinned. “Shall I tell him you’re calling?”
I looked at the clock. It said twenty minutes past two. I was lost in a sort of mental fog, compounded of physical illness and total bewilderment. “Elliott can’t be here,” I said. “He had an appointment with Standish in New York twenty minutes ago.”
“Then he broke it.”
“You’re joking!”
“I was never more serious in my life.” Bill’s voice sank. “Would you like to hear the dirt? Annabelle Bayne is with him. She’s been there an hour.”
I hung on to the desk. Things were happening too fast for my comprehension. I saw that Bill was alarmed by my condition—his face seemed blurred and queer—but it didn’t matter. I just hung there. The stairway was behind me, and it seemed eminently natural that Annabelle Bayne should appear at the head of the stairs, walk down, catch my arm and say in a shocked tone:
“Lola, you’re ill.”
“I felt a little faint. I’m all right now.”
Bill hopped around the desk. “You’d better lie down. I’ll open a room for you.”
“I’m going home.”
“At least let me call Jack. You aren’t fit to make the drive. What’s your number?”
“Jack isn’t home. I can make it all right. Let me go,” I said to Annabelle.
Her grip tightened on my arm. She shook me. “Jack not home! Do you mean to say you’re staying at the cottage alone? Are you crazy?”
“Please, both of you, let me alone. I’ve got to get home. I’m expecting a phone call. It’s important.”
“Then,” said Annabelle, “I’ll go with you. We’ll take my car and leave yours here. Bill, park Mrs. Storm’s car at the Inn garage. Lola, give him your keys.”
She swept me before her. Her assertiveness and determination and assurance overwhelmed me. I objected feebly, but not enough. Presently, in a state of dim wonderment, I found myself in her car, headed toward the cottage. She attended strictly to driving, and didn’t talk, except to ask if I were quite comfortable. She had handled me like a child and I knew it.
My head felt as though it would burst. I was exasperated beyond endurance. It was imperative that I reach Jack by phone, and Annabelle’s presence was the last thing I wanted. It had been made plain that she expected to spend the afternoon as my guest. I decided to get rid of her.
I said, “You’ve been extraordinarily kind, but you’ve done enough. Too much. When we get home I can manage nicely for myself.”
“You cannot remain another minute in that cottage by yourself. For one thing you’re ill, and for another it’s dangerous. You needn’t protest. I shan’t budge till your husband arrives.”
I knew that she wouldn’t. She turned the car off the Post Road and we started on the last lap home. A number of courses occurred to me, and I selected the course which seemed to offer the least in the way of conflict. I was too physically low to engage in a prolonged dispute, and anyhow I was doubtful of success. I decided to telephone Jack from the Olmsteads’. When we neared the brown clapboard house, I asked Annabelle if she would stop.
“I’ll be only a minute. I’ve an errand.”
She nodded. “Why don’t you stay in the car? I’ll hop out and do your errand for you.”
“I’m sorry, but you can’t.”
Annabelle looked a little hesitant as she pulled up beside the road. She got out and opened the door for me, and watched as I walked up the flagged path to the dwelling. April was in the air. A few yards beyond, the woods where Jack had lain bleeding and unconscious showed a tentative, exquisite green.
Henry Olmstead arrived at his door with a paint brush in hand. I cut short his welcome.
“May I use your telephone? Is it connected yet?”
“We keep it connected the year around. It’s cheaper that way. Hasn’t the company told you about the difference between winter and summer rates?”
He led me inside.
“Please, please where is your telephone?”
“In the hall behind you, Mrs. Storm. But first I have something to tell you. Your husband phoned you about half an hour ago.”
“Phoned me? Here! Why should he phone me here?”
My tone was probably intimidating. Henry Olmstead looked abashed. “He didn’t exactly phone you here. But we’re on the same line and I—I happen to know your ring—four short rings, isn’t it?” He glanced at me timidly. “When I heard your ring several times, I imagined you were away and I began thinking I should answer. To take a message, you see? Well, finally I answered. It was your husband. He was surprised, but glad to give me a message. Very glad. I hope I haven’t offended you.” Something stirred in my mind, a recollection, a memory—vaporous, unsubstantial. I stared at Olmstead. I shook my head. It hurt.
I said sharply, “So you answered a telephone call to me in this house! You could, of course, on a party line. Funny, but I’ve never in my life given any thought to the peculiarities of a community telephone.” I leaned against the wall. My hands were ice cold. I said, “Silas Elkins is on this line, isn’t he?”
Olmstead’s head bobbed rapidly. “Yes, he is. You must know that, Mrs. Storm. Three of us share the one fine—you folks, Silas and—and your humble servant.”
I must have presented a forbidding picture, for hurriedly and again he apologized. I scarcely heard him. I saw suddenly and clearly that Silas had been the black-faced man in our closet. I saw how he had managed.
Olmstead’s telephone provided the long missing link and such a simple link, once you had it.
Silas’s alibi rested upon the slender fact that when I telephoned the Lodge he had responded promptly to my appeal—and now I perceived that he need not have been at the Lodge.
As plainly as though I had been present I realized where he had been and what he had done. He had left Jack unconscious in the woods and fled toward the Olmsteads’ house. He had heard the telephone ringing in the silence of the night, identified his own signal, and guessed I was calling him for aid. There must have been then an instant of panic, of indecision. Swiftly it passed. He let himself into the untenanted house—he had keys—rushed to the telephone, answered it and allowed me to assume that he was in bed at the Lodge. It was a good trick. For two solid weeks it had deceived us all, and now at long last I saw light.
I whirled on my bewildered host. “You talked to Jack. Where is he? I must reach him at once.”
“But you can’t, Mrs. Storm. That was his message. He was leaving New York, taking the train here. He spoke of a broken appointment. He was angry, I think.”
“I understand.”
What I didn’t understand was what my next move was to be. I had to talk to a person in authority, a person I could trust. Jack and Standish were quite out of reach—on their way to the train or aboard it. Harkway had started toward the Catskills, and God only knew where he was. I could imagine the type of intelligence I would find in charge at the station. But I had no choice. I decided to phone the station.
I was ill, and when I rose from the chair I discovered it. The floor also seemed to rise. My head which had been heavy now seemed to float, and the rather small room seemed enormous. It was fever, I suppose.
Coincidence had ruled the day. It had trapped Silas and was to trap him again. If I had reached the telephone one minute earlier or one minute later, I would have found a free wire and the course of a hideous afternoon would have been changed. Instead I removed the receiver when I did—at a moment when the party line was busy.
He said, “You’ll see me today and you’ll like it. I’ve taken all from you that I propose to take. You play ball now or you fry. Do you get it? You fry!”
The second voice was terrified. It stammered, protested, mumbled its words. I have forgotten the words, but the voice I shall never forget. It was the voice which had decoyed Jack and me to New Haven and I recognized it at last. It was Silas Elkins’ voice.
Memory, in the final analysis, is a matter for the psychologists, and I cannot attempt to explain what I believe is commonly termed a brainstorm. Silas’s voice on the previous occasion—on the two previous occasions, for he had phoned twice—had been deliberately disguised. It was not disguised now. I had talked to him many times without suspecting, but now I knew. Possibly the fact of my hearing his voice over the wire was the necessary clue; or possibly the unnatural strain and excitement in his tone struck the proper chord; or perhaps it was that my mind having reached one conclusion was peculiarly receptive to another. I don’t know. I do know that I identified Silas instantly as the source of our mysterious voice.
The conversation went on.
Elliott said, “You can expect me at once.”
Silas quavered, “Here at the Lodge?”
Elliott said fiercely, “At the Lodge!”
Two receivers clicked. The wire was free, and the operator was plaintively asking me what number I wanted. My brain was confused. I couldn’t remember why I had gone to the phone or whom I had intended to call. It was a distracted Henry Olmstead who took the receiver from me, replaced it, put his hands on my shoulders and forced me into a chair.
He would not allow me to rise and, himself, at my urgent request, telephoned the police station. He got no answer whatever. I was frantic. Olmstead, who had got increasingly out of his depth, also became frantic.